Things Change
by Lehana Nirvei
Summary: There's a new member of the Order, a constant in Harry's nightmares, and she's quite unnerving. What happens when they realize who and what she is, and why she is there? Title inspired by Patrick Jones's 'Things Change'
1. Prolouge: 'Mione's Confessions

**Disclaimer**: All characters in this chapter, besides 'her', belong to J.K. Rowling, and have no connection with me, expect for the fact they drove me to write this fanfic in the first place. Oh yes, I get no profit from this, so you can't sue me! -whimpers- I didn't do it! I swear!

Plus, if you really want to sue me for it, go on ahead. Though in the long run it'll be a bit of a waste. Trust me, it costs more than it's worth. XD

* * *

A teenage boy sat on the warm concrete step infront of number four, Privet Drive. The summer haze caused him to cover his emerald eyes, sweat trickling from the jet-black touseled hair. Harry Potter been at the Dursley's for almost a month, and he couldn't want anything more than to get away from the parched Dudley and constantly pecking Aunt Petunia. He could hear their talk through the opened door, screen shut, in the living room. Most likely, Harry conceded, Dudley was still arguing over his forced diet, and how it had impeded on his Heavy-Weight Boxing Championship at the end of the year. Aunt Petunia kept saying that she had recieved reports on his lunches, and been told he'd bullied other students into giving him their food.

_Finally, _Harry thought, rolling his eyes at Dudley's incorrect vocabulary, _Someone realizes Ickkle Duddy-kins isn't so perfect._ Despite the fact he was very much lightened by this, there was still a constant nagging at the fact he was seventeen, and this would be his last year at Hogwarts, iif/i he didn't somehow get expelled on something completely bogus. Like supposedly 'lying' or 'telling tales to get attention', or even 'chronically insane, too dangerous to be around other children'. All had been aimed in his direction his past year at Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and frankly, he'd just as willingly _go_ insane, just to get them away. And now he hadn't heard from ANYONE. No Ron, no 'Mione, no Lupin, Dumbledore, Tonks, Mr. or Mrs. Weasley, or even Moody. He'd even welcome a curse from Malfoy to have a speck of reality in this constantly clean, parched, nagging, orderly, commensurately aligned place.

Harry huffed a sigh as he saw a red sports car turn onto Privet Drive. Quickly, he hopped up, dusted off his overly-large pants and swung open the door to number four, just as Uncle Vernon's car pulled into the drive.Without hesitation, he kicked off his shoes, hid them behind the sumptuously clean umbrella stand, and dashed up the beige-carpeted stairs before his annoyed uncle even left the car.

In his room, Harry crashed on his bed and stared at the ceiling, wondering when Hedwig would be back. She'd left three days ago to hunt and he was beginning to be curious. He had no reason to be worried, for Hedwig knew her way around the world, he had to assume, for she'd taken a letter to Sirius when he'd been in Africa(A/N:I'm guessing here people!). Harry wrenched his eyes closed and focused on a a silver glimmer under his eyelid. Thinking about Sirius was still too much, although he'd been gone for over a year. Damn that veil! He still didn't even know what it was, what it did, and couldn't even voice his opinion on it without a sharp look from 'Mione or Ron. Aparently they were still broken about it, even if they knew him only as a friend, whereas Harry knew his as a godfather.

Scolding himself for thinking about it, when he'd deliberately told himself not to, Harry heard the soft whoosh of feathers and the cling of talons on iron. Immediately he shot open his eyes and sat up. This happened every time Hedwig came back. Always that hope of hearing from someone. After he'd become a murderer at age sixteen("Wormtail _deserved_ it!", he'd say indignantly), people seemed distant from him, moreso now that they weren't _forced_ to be around him. Seeing Hedwig on her cage, holding out her leg with a heavy roll of parchment, Harry nearly jumped and yelled. Well, he really _did_ jump and yell.

"Keep it down, boy!" Uncle Vernon bellowed from the kitchen, most likely supervising Dudley on his dinner. Harry ignored him and quickly removed Hedwig's burden, tearing the seal, and rolling out the letter. He gaped at its length, though he couldn't quite contemplate the reasoning behind putting three inches, then so much blank parchment. Nearly six feet! With a quick glance at the door to make sure it was locked, he began to read, once again sitting on his bed. He recognized the handwriting at once as Hermione's.

_Harry,_

_We feel dreadful for keeping you in the dark for the third consecutive summer, but it's been absolutely neccesary. I only just arrived here last week_(Harry knew she was talking of Grimmauld Place)_ but I can tell you one thing Harry, you're going to be here soon! I promise, and I never break my promises unless it's of the utmost importance. Now, Harry, you mustn't get angry with me for writing so much, because I have so much on my mind, and Ron will not listen, Ginny is stuck up our room writing love letters to Neville, and NO ONE else will hear me out. I know you would, if you were here, so I'm going to spill me mind and heart out here for you to concede in my troubles._

The rest was blank. Harry puzzled over this for only a few more seconds before sighing in relief. They had mixed up a special potion to put in ink for notes in class, making it invisible to anyone who did not know the password for it. Quickly, smiling at Hermione's genius on making it in the first place, Harry whispered the password. "Flight of Death."

Scrawl quickly wrote itself on the remainder of the six feet of parchment, and Harry began reading again.

_I know this sounds pathetic, Harry, because you already know... but I can't help but think Ron is purposely ignoring me. After that little rendezvous last year.. and mind you, Harry, I'm blushing at this..../i(Harry audibly laughed, making Hedwig jump)ihe's been avoiding my eye and saying as little as is neccesary. I hope you can talk you him, if you two get over that little squabble of yours. AND BICKERING OVER BROOMSTICKS IS NOT A GOOD WAY TO WASTE A WHOLE DAMN SUMMER!(_Shocked at her written language, 'Mione had always been against cursing, Harry raised his eyebrows at the image of her yelling at him about broomsticks. He quickly read on)_ Could you talk to him about it? I know there's a lot on your mind now.. such as when you'll get here, who you'll meet here(Harry read over this again, confused slightly. Who would he meet now? Surely he'd expected the Order to grow after Voldemort's appearance...), and all that stuff about You-Know-Who... But if you ever could, please do so, for me... I like Ron, and you know this, and I don't want to lose him./i_

The rest was on things Hermione had never told him about, parts of his slightly smudged, others showing her perfect handwriting. He pored over this, gaining news of anything to do with the Wizarding World and picking out pieces that caught his attention. _('It's so strange here now, Harry, that she's here.")(Fudge's being treated again, and I can't tell you how odd it feels to wish he'd just die.")("Percy is still got his head up his giant arse, and I can't seem to stop hating him too.")("She's driving me CRAZY! All her superiority makes me sick.") _This made no speck of sense to Harry. Who was 'she'? And since when had Fudge needed physical treatment? Percy was nothing new to him. He'd just been hated by Harry since the second he'd sent Ron that letter in fifth year.

With so many things wracking his brain, he confusedly rolled up the parchment, tied it, and hid it under the loose floorboard under his bed. Without even removing his clothes, he drifted off to sleep without dinner, not even waking up when Aunt Petunia yelled at him four times from downstairs.


	2. Chapter One: Unexpected Encounter

'She' was the one who would have to spend a whole damned year with these people...

She sat at the grubby table at Grimmauld Place, glaring holes into the worn wood. _Why in the name of Bloody Merlin did I do this?_ _Oh, yes. Father's death, Mother's murder, and the oncoming War to consider_. Not to mention the fact that she was a messager from and for both sides of it, giving her a purely neutral ground. It was quite logical, if risky and completely traitorous, in the case you found yourself cornered by one or the other on the battlefield. They'd think you a much higher ranked member of their side than they, and simply imply you were doing what was expected of you. Fighting with every light that was ever so impossibly extinguished.

Leaning back, she ran a hand down her young face. The chill of her fingers was normal, but the heat of her face was not. She cut a glance to the fireplace, and saw that it had been kindled. A figure sat in a chair facing it, their back to her. Despite her reverie, she hadn't expected anyone to come in here, especially when she'd put massive locking wards on the doors. She was more adept at this than anyone she'd ever known, including her Death of a father. A slight growl sounded from her throat as her lip curled. "What are you doing in here?" she asked harshly.

"Thinking.... 'Tis that a crime, too?"

That voice. . . . The Mudblood's. The one whom she shared most intellect with in this grime, and the one who, she now realized, was more spell-wise than she'd thought. By saying 'massive', she meant massive. Those wards were of Dark nature, some. And it would take a fairly well-read person to even know they existed, let alone break them. "Yes."

She pushed herself away from the table with unbelievable force for her thinness and calmly walked to the door, undid the remaining wards. Leaving, she turned for a last glance at the Mudblood. And what she saw made her jaw drop.

The girl was staring at the fire, eyes slightly glassy, a bottle of what she was sure was vodka in her hand. Her chestnut curls were sticking to her neck and face from her sweat. She was leaning rather close to the fire. With a small smirk, Rainne left the girl to her drunk rendezvous.

* * *

Harry awoke with a start. It was still dark. More than dark, really, going on the fact he couldn't see the nose attached to his face. Eyes widening, he heard a slithering sound from the floor.

He hadn't been stupid enough to move, waking with such abruptness meant something had done that waking for him. Last summer the trio had gone through advanced caution training with Moody, Tonks, and Shacklebolt. He now knew more than many adult witches and wizards, let alone those a Hogwarts.

The sound had ominously stopped. Forcing himself to keep steady, lazy breaths to feign sleep, Harry slowly reopenned his eyes.

What he felt next nearly made him scream.

* * *

As she walked through down the narrow staircase, voices could be heard from below. The minute she stepped off the bottom step it ceased. Feeling uneasy, she frowned and looked from face to face. There had to be at least half of the original Order members there, and they had to have been previously talking about her. She wasn't stupid. Sudden hushes when one enters is a clear sign of talking behind that one's back.

"What is it? I can tell I'm needed. Just tell me where and why." Her voice was slightly higher than she would have liked, but it was done.

"Jadian's there... isn't he?" She asked frantically after a silence. "Oh Damn him to Hell!" She quickly ran from the landing and to the door, not stopping at Weasley's voice.

"Who's Jadian --?" The door cut off all other noise. Within seconds she was quickly running down the road, growling under her breath at her stupidity. Without another thought, she illegally Apparated.

* * *

Harry was overcome with images, a cold shiver encasing his body, crazy facets of sick imaginations convulsing under his eyelids. Perhaps his imagination. 

_He was standing in the Great Hall, staring up at the Head Table. A body, mangled, bloody, and limp hung from a noose. Words were carved in the pale flesh "Fuck You, Potter". Blood pooled under the innocent body, forming words he didn't bother to read. Brown eyes stared into his, telling him how much he'd failed her. How he couldn't help her now. Her death had been caused by him, in a sick way, and he couldn't stop it now. Hermione was there, numbing him with her wretched, grudging murder . . . ._

_Countless bodies lay distraught on the fog-covered fields. He turned his head. Bodies everywhere. Some moving slightly, if only to caugh up blood helplessly, knowing their death was immenent; others lying spread-eagled, eyes staring hauntingly at the steely skies, mouths slightly agape as if they couldn't believe they had actually failed all they had worked for. And he stared ahead, watching himself as if from the skies themselves, as he was comfronted by Death himself. The Flight of Death to be exact. . . ._

_Screams. Wracking him like waves. Threatening to tear him from his sanity. "NOOO!"_

"NO! I will NOT!" Harry bolted up in his bed. His eyes raised to horrifyingly black ones.

"Potter." It was a man.

Harry quickly bared his wand like a sword, nimbly hopped off of his bed, and glared at the man shrouded infront of him. Still trembling from the horrid images that flitted across his sight, Harry clenched his jaw and waited. . . .

With a loud, if magically mute, crack, a woman came inbetween the two. Well, she seemed like a woman, with her height and hair, but in the dark of night she could have been thirty. Suprised, Harry jumped back.

"Get back Potter, this is a family order..." Her voice, he'd heard it before. Those screams! They'd been her's. . . ."Go! Before I bloody well blast you there!"

He stood stock still, watching what was unfolding. His own trauma encasing him like a shell. _I"ve been closed before now. I've done more than any of them. And I don't flaunt it. I should get an explanation._

_Idiotic boy! If you stay you won't have anything to live for anyway! Damned incarnates...._

Realizing the voice was not his own, ripped out his wand, and pointed it at the man. "I'm not going, whoever you are." It didn't matter who or why the hell had just Apparated at Number Four, Privet Drive. It was the fact that the man looked dangerous. Leaving anyone with a man like that is stupid, rather Malfoy-like. Let alone a female.

"Oh, yes you are." She growled and flicked her wand. With a crack, he was siting next to members of the Order... gaping.

* * *

"Jadian-" 

"You had no right to interfere." It was a snarl, ragged and haggard. Wrought by years in Moribundus, a prizon worse than even Azkaban. It was underground in Malaysia, carved from stone and impregnable.

"I had every goddam right, brother. If you would have killed him, the prophecy would have gone haywire. Merlin knows we all want to, but we can't. That's the Dark Lord's priveledge. He was drained by the prat, he should be able to kill him. Slowly and painfully."

"I'm not giving this up without killing you, too." Even in the sickening darkness, she could tell he was close to insane laughter.

"You can't kill someone who's already dead, Jadian."

* * *

"_Harry? _Harry!" Mrs. Weasley gasped and engulfed the teen in a warm, frantic hug. "I knew she wouldn't kill you..." Her voice had an edge to it, and Harry followed her eyes to a girl on the opposite side of the table. 

Hermione hicced once before comprehension dawned on her. With glassy, wide eyes she stared at Harry and abruptly began sobbing. "It's all -hic-... her fault!" She managed, rocking in her chair.

Alarmed, Harry looked around the table and met confused faces. Every one of them familiar. Silently, he wished Sirius were there. Shoving the thought away, Harry looked around the room and back to 'Mione, placing a simple Cheering Charm on her. Immediately, she stopped hiccing and sobbing, smiling gleefully.

"Who's fault? Who was that woman? And why in the bloody Hell are you all staring at me like I've grown three heads?!" Harry bellowed. The faces were still glued to Harry in astonishment. Bill Weasley was holding a tearing Ginny, Ron's mouth was agape, Moody's magical eyes was spinning so fast it was like a hurricane, and Mr. Weasely was rubbing his temples. Lupin was first to speak.

"She would probably rather introduce herself, I'd think. Don't you, Arthur?" Lupin's hair was grayer and his face held more wrinkles than Harry had seen on anyone but perhaps Dumbledore. His blue eyes were filled with concern, and he looked absolutely worn-out. Harry felt a sudden rush of understanding. Lupin had lived through four of his best friend's deaths, all of which were to or for Voldemort.

"No need, Remus." A young worman's voice rang through the room. All heads turned to the magnificent, if warped, sight.


	3. Chapter 2: Voldemort's Heir

She was tall for her age, but with a lithe grace that could make water seem like a bumbling idiot. White hair, or silver rather, framed her face and fell to her elbows. Her skin was whiter than milk, and looked as if it'd break if dropped. _Like a porcelain doll_, Harry thought vaguely, intranced at the sight before them all.

She was breathing in a determined slowness, thought it was obviously strained. There was a large cut on her right cheek, and Harry could see she was clutching her side under her menacingly jetblack robes. The second he lifted his eyes from her injured state, he met something that nearly made him faint.

Her eyes. Scarlet, no, more than that. Blood red. The irises were fine, perfectly normal besides their color, but what struck Harry was the shape of her pupils. They were slightly acute, and seemed so utterly snake-like that she resembled his worst enemy, Hell, the _world's_ worst enemy, Lord Voldemort.

Their gaze never faltered, and from the slightly crazed silence that was encompassing the room, nobody was willing to speak before one of them did. She was first to jerk her eyes away, and Harry fleetingly realized that she hadn't once looked at his scar, nor gotten that glazed look most did when they were using their peripheral vision to glimpse it.

Suddenly she blanched and turned to Mrs. Weasley. "Molly, do you think I could get a bowl... or something?" Her voice was light, but it held a power, and Mrs. Weasley quickly ran to the kitchen and came back with a large wooden bowl. Nearly immediately the girl leaned over it with all the grace a spellbound person could muster, heaving what sounded suspiciously like slugs into the bowl Mrs. Weasley was sympathetically holding for her.

Harry tore his eyes away to look at the others, who were now all gaping between the woman and him, still curious about the little stare-off they'd had. Ginny had stopped crying the moment the girl had spoken, and was now looking pityingly at her. Bill was shaking his head and muttered something about how brothers could be the worst eggs in a family, and Ron and Harry shared a significant look. Ron had gone through the same condition a few years back, and it hadn't been a great experience. He looked at her again before taking out his wand and saying the counter-jinx Madam Pomfrey had used on him then. The girl looked faintly startled at first before taking out her own wand and cleaning the bowl, then, to the slight humor of Fred and George, Scourgified her own mouth.

"Well, then. We should get down to business?" Her eyes flicked fom face to face, avoiding Harry's, and landed on Lupin. "Remus, would you mind not taking so much of that accursed aging potion. Surely you don't think we know so little of werewolves not to know they have a slow aging process? Please save us all the worry you're going to keel over and just... stop?" One of her pale eyebrows was raised, and Harry saw a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. Aparently she had to advert the attention from her.... and to Lupin?

Harry's head swivelled so fast he could have sworn it'd popped twice. "Lupin?! You git! I thought you were bloody well dying!"

And he gave a slight smile to the ex-Professor, who looked extremely pale at the thought of someone knowing this significant fact.

"Well..." Lupin shifted slightly, utterly unnerved. "I -- Alright you lot will you stop looking at me like that?!" He turned to the girl and tried to glare, but apparently couldn't; as if a force were keeping him from it. He left her gaze and stared intently on the wood of the table.

A light, strangled laugh left the girl as she pulled out an empty seat across from Harry and sat herself. Harry noticed again, with a twinge of sympathy, that a dark liquid was seeping between the fingers of her left hand, which was clutching her side. Before he could comment, she raised a hand and a complete hush followed it. Her startling eyes rested on Harry, who was fully aware of the slight frown that was evident on his brow. A second passed before she took her hand away from her side and took a cloth from the table to wipe her hand. The blackness of the liquid didn't escape Harry's eye.

"Potter." Harry's attention jerked at the sound of her voice, which had considerably stablilized itself after her wretching. "Do you know who I am?"

It seemed such a stupid question at the moment that Harry had to make his memory repeat it twice before he realized she was serious. "Of course I don't, how could I?" His voice came out a bit colder than he'd liked it to be, but she didn't seem to mind.

* * *

On the contrary, she rather enjoyed it. 

The boy was startling, actually, in the way he kept himself composed on the other end of the table. The scar didn't matter to her, and she could tell he was faintly suprised at it. She tossed the cloth at the reproachful house-elf, much to the displeasure of the Mudblood, and turned her gaze back to Potter.

"There are many ways to get to know things, Potter." Her head tilted slightly as his eyes widened in the slightest. She kept her voice in a deadly quiet. "Or have you been mentally penetrated multiple times and come out of it will so little knowledge? I'm fully aware that you can get into Weasely's mind at random times. And... if I'm not mistaken..." Her eyes narrowed slightly as she her head raised in understanding, or was it comprehension....? "You've attempted --"

"Tell me who you are, then, if that's where you're getting at." The boy did look rather menacing when he was snarling like a rabid beast....

A slow smirk lifted the corners of her unusually scarlet lips. "Certainly. I'm Rainnealla Shea Fall, daughter of Voldemort's step-brother, Aakarshan Murdre Fall."

There was a stunned silence, of which she didn't miss the opportunity in. She hadn't even told Dumbledore the fact that she was personally related to the Dark Lord, nor the tidbit that she was supposed to take over for him in a case that he'd be unable to. "I'm his heir."

At this the Potter kid abruptly convulsed, clutching his forehead, and even from the two meters separating her from the boy, Rainne could tell her uncle was very angry.

_I'm doing what you told me, Uncle. You cannot blame me for that._ Her thought was completely neutral, even loving, in a sick, sly kind of way.

_No, certainly not, dear child, but you're not here, and Nott just noticed. Knew he was too intelligent for his own good. What do you think, Cruciatus or Callus Vaporus?_ The Dark Lord sounded deeply thoughtful, anger seeping through his mind's barriers.

_Definately Callus Vaporus. The more he crumbles the better. Have fun Uncle._

_Oh I will, Trust me... I will._

Immediately the Potter boy stopped, gasping for breath, and looked over at her. Slightly aware of the accusatory glint in his eyes, she gave a small, almost pitying smile. "Nott noticed my absence. Sorry about that, Potter. Nothing I could have prevented. He'll be dead tomorrow, so your pain will be paid in full."

At the horrorstruck faces, she nimbly got up from her seat and inclined her head in their direction. "The man in your bedroom tonight was Jadian, my brother. He was trying to avenge himself after ten years in Moribundus, a wizarding prizon hundreds of miles below Malaysia, completely impregnable. Nobody's survived after going in. Everyone but him. Rest assured he'll regain ranks for attempting your murder though. That is, if he can get out again." With that, she nodded to Bill, who led her over into the tea parlor to heal her wounds.

* * *

After this, Harry wasn't sure if he should be worried, thankful, depressed, or gleeful. This Fall character could be a spy for Him. And he was sure he'd heard them speaking mentally during that elaborate pain spasm. Perhaps she was a spy for _them_, the Order. If so, he should be immensely relieved. She was Voldemort's bloody_ heir!_ That's definately got to have huge privelages and inside connections attached to the majesticality of it. Just think of the look on Malfoy's face when he saw the heir to the man he'd sworn faith to, at Hogwarts. Yes. Harry knew she'd be in Slytherin. One look at the whiplash of her tongue or cut of her eye would tell you that. A mind full of cunning and a heart worthy of Voldemort himself. Vaguely, he wondered if it really was black. He'd been certain that liquid on her hand had been blood. But if it was, she had the strangest blood he'd ever seen. Then again... he'd only seen reaccurances of Wormtail's blood over the past month. So he thought it likely that fleeting second of seeing it, he'd just imagined it._I mean, everything about her screams strange, maybe I just thought her blood was no exception....._


	4. Chapter Three: Snappy Chat

"This will leave a scar. Whatever he used had a poison in or on it. It'll never go away."

Bill Weasley was carefully healing Rainne's wounds, wiping away the black blood. Though, from the few scars on her side when he was healing her broken rib, he realized that she'd been through worse. She was a fighter, and that was enough to make him respect her as one of higher rank than he. In both personality and spirit. She'd been through more pain than he had, and he knew, with the wisdom of fighting in the Order before and being a murderer himself, that she would do whatever it took to do what was expected of her. It was who she was, or who she was brought up to be.

After a moment of her staring intently at the far wall, she let out the smallest of sighs and spoke in a quiet, but strong nonetheless, voice. "It won't matter. I'll get over it. My physical appearance has nothing to do with this war..."

Knowing even as he said it it was false, Bill cringed and sealed the wound in her left cheek. "Your followers will see it as a lack of knowledge."

Her head snapped so fast he immediately was reminded of a viper ready to attack, hiding in stealth for the correct moment to strike. "They won't think that, Weasely. Not if I curse them to show them how much it bloody well --" She broke off and turned her head again, glaring daggers at the far wall.

Another silence insued and after the serious injuries were tended to, she quickly stood and left for the dining room, leaving a perplexed Bill in her wake.

* * *

"We're starting training today, Potter, after you get adequate rest." Rainne said neutrally to the teenage boy, who looked at her with those challenging green eyes without a horrid flinch like he had last time. They were sitting at opposite ends of the long dining table. It was still black as death outside, in the early rise of the morning. Neither had slept, though Ginny and a few of the others had called it a night. They were alone at in the dining room. Remus had left, along with Alastor and Arthur.

"Training for what, exactly?" His eyebrows were raised slightly. Sitting at the end of the table like a king on his throne, (and no doubt he felt that way) she could have sworn he was a Slytherin.

With a small, light laugh, she smirked and shook her head disbelievingly. "Are you that thick, Potter?"

"I'm already trained in stealth and caution--"

"_You can't survive my uncle's wrath with stealth and caution_!" Her eyes momentarily blazed as she interjected. "You need to be better at weaponry. Including the rather vulgar substitutes for weapons Muggles use, as well as in rather advanced Dark Magic."

"And if I don't want to divulge in this O-so-intruiging Dark Magic?" Harry's voice betrayed the smirk on his face. Was he actually countering her?

Emitting a slight growl, Rainne took a drink of her goblet, filled with a red liquid that nobody at the table could make out. "Then you die."

This didn't take the smirk off his face; on the contrary, he lowered his eyebrows, making it a bit more menacing. "I've died before."

"You've been possessed, Potter. Shared a body and mind with Voldemort... But trust me, you've never died. Perhaps wanted to, and I can confer with that. But death is nothing like you'd ever be able to imagine."

"Meaning?" The smirk slid off his face like stinksap.

"That death is much different than pain. Pain is an object of infliction, nerves, and whether or not you can keep your head and block it out. Death is inevitable. You can escape pain, Potter. You cannot escape death."

"I thought you knew something about me. Actually, I've escaped death quite a few times--"

"--And inflicted it, I might add--"

"--and I'm still here, aren't I?--"

"If you can call that absense of a mind 'here', than yes, I suppose so." She was smiling now. Her little Death Eaters couldn't give her a proper snap session, they were too afraid of her. But Potter could, and she rather liked snapping at someone who'd also been a murderer due to their birth, and not who they truly were.

"You make no sense to me."

"Good. The less you know of a person, the more options are available in their possible actions to keep you aware." She took another sip of the red liquid and set it back down on the table. "Sometimes the people you know and trust are the most likely to turn around and stab you in the back. _Meaning,_" He'd opened his mouth to protest, but she pressed on. "That you can't trust anyone. Alastor may seem crazy, and on a level he very well may be, but he had the right things in mind when it comes to caution. But not action, Potter. That's why I'm here, being my Merlin-forbid traitorous self, so you can fight. Be bloody grateful."

"Oy! I didn't _make _you come here. Merlin's bathrobe, I didn't even _know_ who you were or that you existed until two hours ago!"

"Temper, temper. We'll have to work on that too, I'm afraid." Rainne sipped her Bloodwyne, savoring the flavor of Siren blood and wine, select herbs and the tang of vodka.

His glare was frightening... to a worm. Though his eyes did flash. "How ever-so-thoughtful. I would have thought a Death Eater like you would also have a temper."

He stopped when she lifted her lip in a snarl worthy of a rabid wolf. _"I am above such hypocrisy and scum, thank you. _Never _put my in the same category as a Death Eater, Potter."_ Her deadly whisper, which she saved for her worse moments, slithered from her tongue in serpentine, otherwise known as Parsletongue.

Vaguely startled, Harry narrowed his eyes and took a drink of his butterbeer. _"I see. Think yourself above your worthless minions, then?"_

With an immense show of self-control, Rainne brought her hand down from its striking position and blew heavily through her nostrils. Usually she didn't show revulsion or signs of peeves. And still, the thought echoed in her head, _Damn incarnates._

"Hit a tick, didn't I?" Such malignity! Worthy of great-great-grandfather, Salazar, himself.

"Get your rest, Potter. Merlin forbid you'll need it." With a neutral air, she lifted her goblet, gave a mock toast and downed its contents before efficiently walking the height of the stairs.

With her gone, Harry was alone, and grateful for it too. How was he supposed to train in physical combat? His squabbles with Voldemort had been mostly magical or mental, nothing concerning his physical muscle or skill. Damn her! And by 'Muggle weaponry', did she mean firearms? Or blades? Merlin forbid it be explosives. They'd be pointless if Voldemort knew their presence.

Speaking of Voldemort sensing things, why couldn't he sense her lies? Maybe she was telling none? Now there's an idea. His own neice in the heart of the Order, training his fated enemy to kill him. But did that mean she was telling two truths? Or telling two lies? Perhaps shared blood gave way to immunity in Legilimency? Impossible. Occlumens? That was thinkable. She had the mental capacity for it. Harry had seriously doubted being able to do it himself, and in time became quite adequate at it, but nowhere near perfect.

But he had his own weapon. Yes. Meditation and a strong mental influence with emotional and physical pain had rendered him ready to fight back mentally against Voldemort. And one thing was clear, Voldemort hadn't been expecting it. Of course, Harry would still get painful episodes, such as the one earlier, but that was only when Voldemort personally induced pain or death. Though as often as it would sound, it only happened about three times a month, maybe more. He'd stopped keeping track after his fifth year at Hogwarts had ended.

Speaking of Hogwarts. Would she be going, too? Harry grinned at the idea of seeing the Slytherin's faces of terror if they recognized her; which they most likely would, considering she would be their leader if Harry succeded in killing him. The image of Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Parkinson bowing to their Mistress was enough to make him forget his butterbeer and laugh freely before running a tired hand through his hair and going up to bed.


	5. Chapter Four: Sullen Secrets

The second Harry stepped into the hall for breakfast he regretted it.

She was sitting at the table, oblivious to his presence, staring at her plate. Her eyes were unfocused and blazing, and he wouldn't have been suprised if she'd melted the old good silver with them. Almost belatedly he noticed how vulnerable she looked, and the hand clenched on her glass, threatening to shatter it. She looked almost... _hurt._

And he didn't know what to do. Dumbly, he stood there, staring in awe at how much that simple stance changed her. She looked younger than he did, and... though he'd seen death, made death, wallowed in death. She'd _been_ it. And though he couldn't explain how he knew that, it was as plain as if written out.

Thankfully, Mrs. Weasely woke her from her stupor with breakfast, so Harry didn't have to. Her head jerked up so fast he thought it was a miracle she didn't get an injury from it. He saw the mask, the reserve, slam into action on her face. Almost as if that vulnerable girl he'd seen had never been there.

Mrs. Weasely came in with a plate of sausages. Seeing Harry, she smiled warmly and pulled out a chair for him. "Come eat, Harry dear. The rest will be down in a moment."

As Harry obliged, he couldn't help thinking about who 'the rest' would be. They'd lost many to the War already, but it wasn't as much as it would be, and Merlin forbid he knew that. How Neville had been slaughtered in an uncanny resemblance to Pettigrew's supposed murder. They gave his grandmother his right forearm. The rest, gone. And Hannah Abbot, raped unto suicide. The last battle, resulting in fifty-four total deaths. Half of them children under the age of eighteen. Cho Chang, hit with the Killing Curse, just like Cedric. Mundungus, tortured unto death. Hermione, Ron, Ginny, all of them at Grimmauld Place; all had at least been hit by one life-threatening curse. Each forced to watch, fearless, as their friends were taken under.

Harry took a drink of water, but nothing to change the bile rising in his throat. Had this been what she'd thought of? All of this suffering, with no visible end. All because her grandmother had married a Muggle man.

"Don't, Harry." It was such a soft, gentle, tortured voice, Harry didn't recognize it. Until he looked up without raising his head. She was staring at him, silver hair falling slightly over her face. Somehow her eyes seemed less fiery, and more unbarred. The shock of her just calling him by his first name was enough to make him hold the gaze, staring from behind his own bangs. "Just please, don't think about them again. We've had enough to dwell on, don't you think?"

Raising his head, he held her gaze and nodded slightly. She took up her reserve again, leaving Harry wondering, like always. "We'll meet with the others in the basement, Potter. It's cleared, and stashed. Tell them, and meet me there at nine."

Why do I kill myself over it? I'd been through it multitudes of times before I met him. Told myself not to hold it against him, not to blame him. And then, I have every right to, in a sad sense. If it weren't for him, I'd be normal. If it weren't for him, I could sleep without dreams constantly haunting me. The world without his presence is my utopia, but I know that that can never happen. Because if it does, the world will eventually fall under ruin.

And as he stands infront of me like my equal, holding the blade in defense, I know I cannot kill him. Not because of the fact I'd be dead before I could, but because if I did, it'd be the end of it. Oh yes, I could kill him now. Could. But won't. I wonder why sometimes... when I see their faces, why I don't just end it for them. Like I told him earlier. You can escape pain, but you cannot escape death.

I struck, he parried. Spinning into a defensive stance, I caught glimpse of Weasely's gaping face. There was a spark as his blade met mine, and we entangled in a dance of metal and flesh, white and black. He had more skill than I would have thought in the beginning, but no more than I had before it had been forced onto me.

Stepping back, I yelled over the cling of steel on steel, his blade on mine, "Enough!"

Potter stepped back, panting. Not all of my strikes missed, and he'd have bruises from the flat of the blade in the morning, but no visible cuts. I, on the otherhand, could feel a welt forming on my wrist. The sweat was sticking to my defensive leather fighting gear, making it chafe my skin, something Potter didn't hesitate to point out. "You should get out of that, before it breaks skin."

"And you, you should try not to baby me." I couldn't help but snap at him. He'd ruined my life, the least I could do was ruin his.

But the black leather lace-up was getting iritating, so I sheathed my weapon and knelt to start the long process of untying the thick hide. Suprising me, he knelt beside me and started on the other one. It took several minutes just to unty it to the knee on both sides, enough to show my raw skin. Potter had chosen practical clothing, something he wouldn't have the luxury of during battle, and something he'd eventually have to lose. But, of course, there were not battle-ready fittings available for the miraclulous Boy-Who-Lived-To-Make-My-Life-Hell. I got that from a minion's son once. He'd been quite pleased to see me laugh at it.

All the same, he'd have no comfort in killing my uncle. Not that I'd have it that way. Plus, my uncle wasn't even his worst opponent. Sad thing he didn't know that yet. Still, I can take my sadistic pleasure in having that fact to myself, can't I? Haven't I been through enough for that leisurely thought?

As he peeled back my left legging to my knee, I visibly saw him tense. Not so much as I felt it. Serpent instincts. You learn to love them. Fighting a sigh, I stretched out my leg to see which groteque scar he was gaping at.

"Ahh. Dolohov gave me that in training. Nothing you should worry about. It healed nicely, actually. Your's will have looked the same...?" The mark in question was a long, knotted scar from my ankle to the back of my knee. It had been painful, but who lets anyone know their pain? Certainly not the heir of Voldemort, _or _the heir of Slytherin. Merlin forbid I had to be both. Blood has a sick way of turning on people.

Potter nodded and rolled up his sleeve, showing a mark slightly smaller than mine from his small finger to his elbow. Though smaller, it had healed worse, causing the flesh to still be pink, after at least two years of healing. I audibly sighed at this, knowing full well that Dolohov hadn't been the minion Potter though was under that hood that night. But none other than my fourth cousin by marriage, Juveitte Parkinson. The Pans-ass's older sister. "I'm not saying you deserved it, Potter." _Lying to yourself is the first sign of insanity._"But Dolohov didn't do that. Parkinson did. Don't think of killing her either. She's already dead."

A slight silence hung in the air as I pulled myself up. "I wasn't planning on killing anyone. You seem quite keen to the subject of death, Rainne." Hearing my name uttered from unworthy lips, I flinched at Potter's comment.

"Don't call me that, Potter. If anything, call me 'you' or... well, whatever you wish. Just not Rainne." I shuddered at it and turned to Weasel and Beaver, who'd been watching in silence. Weasel was still gaping, and Beaver was looking at me shrewdly. Surely the prude wasn't sizing me up? HA! She'd die under my stare before she'd be able to move, let alone attempt to hex me. Little Mudblood...

"I actually like the name. It's quite poetic." My eyebrow raised at the Weasel, who was looking thoughtfully at my hair. "I'm curious, why do you have the hair of a two hundred and eighty-six year old, yet look so young?"

I growled and slowly stepped toward him, feeling confident of my menacing charade. "It is not there for decoration, Weasley." One step closer. "It is for identification purposes, but there is something in the blood that makes it special." Locking him with my eyes, I could see the terror flickering across his face, like a cornered animal with nowhere to go but backward. "Would you like a demonstration? I would be happy to oblige."

Tempted though I was, I knew I could not demonstrate. Not there anyway. So I just smirked as dangerously as I thought the moment to need and turned back to Potter, who was watching in interest. "Potter. You were better than I thought, but not good enough. The first wing of fighting will be manual. No wands. I doubt you would know this otherwise, but I thought it necessary if you were to take this seriously. I'll be in the front of that wing, and though some here don't trust me with it, I swear to you that I would not be doing this if it were meaningless to me or the future of us all. Pardon the cliche in that, but it is the truth. I am not a master story-crafter, so I am going to tell you this bluntly.

"You have worse enemies than my uncle. Worse enemies than the Slytherins, who you thought were your only nemises until you met my uncle's host. Worse than me, worse than anything human or not. Have you ever put to thought what might happen if you lose? Perhaps you would just go through constant torture, shutting yourself out from the screams. Or perhaps, you would just run. Run, Harry, and never look back at what you were meant to end. Run. To Hell. Or... perhaps you would never see that. Never see the death, rape, caustic torture of millions. Never smell the stench of splattered blood on the cobblestones. Never get to stare into lifeless eyes of your allies." I had begun involintarily walking toward him in my desperate state, remembering the dreams. So many dreams.

"Then, they will all come in. Wipe out my uncle's forces. Take advantage of the world's weakness to gain control. Become power. See what it is like to make and end what our world surfaces on. That is what will happen, Potter, if you do not train with your mind and body. If you do not gain control of your power, that light in the darkness, it will all be for nothing. It is all in your hands, Potter, and it always has been. Sixteen years ago, we were both marked a fate none of the wizarding world would understand, Harry. The fate of the Merlin forsaken world." I knew I was growing hysteric. Despite my reserve, I was standing directly infront of him. So close I had to look up slightly just to speak into his face. I tear fell from my eye, and I found I did not care anymore. Not like I used to. Not in the desperate attempt to find someone who understood.

In all truth, that was just the acursed author trying to be dramatic. Heirs of the most evil person in the world, such as I, never _cry!_ How repulsive...

Awareness... something Potter would also have to work on, it seems. Must have forgotten I had picked up my blade during all of my fluff. Please forgive my evil, maniacal mental laughter.

The second I lashed out, Potter's hand whipped to a guarding stand point. I halted my blade before it could do any damage. The Beaver squealed. Sigh. I should have expected this. "Tell me, Potter. What were your mistakes?"

And, like a good little minion, he lowered his hand and stared at me in a mask. "One, I let my guard down due to emotions. Two, I used another bodily extension to guard my abdomen. I won't be that lucky on the battlefield." Then, as if mocking me, he added, "Mistress."

Glaring my all-so-evil Glare Of Death, I lowered my blade and flipped it so the hilt was at his waist level. "Good. Again."

After another sparring match, Potter came out defeated, but with a good practice in. He suprised me, even if I knew the outer facade of happiness was always going to be that... a facade. As much as I hate to admit it, he was like me in ways no one else was. People looked up to him for advice, but out of a certain circle, others despised him. He was trusted by his people, as I am by mine. But people knew of him, tormented him, whereas Uncle purposely kept everyone in the dark of my blood. I was ten before my own brother knew I existed.

You can escape pain, but you cannot escape death. I'm not sure why I said that to him. My uncle said that to me, before his servant came to be the sacrifice. See, it might seem odd how I wasn't there for my uncle when he was just a bodiless vapor. But truly.. if your uncle was the most hated man in the world, willing to go through any means to get what he wanted, would you go to him? No... I always knew where he was, even if I was only a child. I was never really a child, nor was Potter. He evolved from the very essence of hate, as I did. I hated my uncle, I hated my parents. A constant ring of loathing that I could never break. But I stayed, played my part, just as Potter did. And the final battle will be against my uncle... against everything I hate... and I know I am the only one who has the key to this, yet I will never be able to say it. I cannot let them all know their innocence makes him shudder in anticipation. I will never lie to protect anyone, for no one should need protecting.

I had new wounds, which is something I rarely had when going up against a beginner. I was impressed, but would not show it. He could have killed me once in that last quarrel, but he didn't. Life is full of coulds and shoulds, but there's only a select number of do's and did's.

"There's a meeting tonight. We're all expected." I was panting slightly as I said this to them. Beaver and Weasel were practicing advanced magical protection spells while Potter and I fought it out with swords.

"Why? What's happened?" Potter's face darkened, creasing his brow in a frown.

"Everything..." I sheathed my blade and layed it upon a long table along the wall, Potter following suit. My skin was chafed and burning with salty sweat, but I made no move to remove it. I had kept my hair back in a plait, but strands had fallen and were sticking to my neck. Potter's hair was much the same, and his shirt and jeans were darker than they were when we had started. It took me a moment to notice he was just as soaked through with sweat as I was. "We should all clean up. Including you two." I nodded to the Beaver and Weasel, who had stopped with minor injuries to listen. "They will be expecting us in an hour in the meeting room. Molly is greeting them all in the foyier. No need to dress up, half of them you probably won't even know." Still breathing hard, I left through the basement door and up the stairs to the kitchen.

Molly, Remus, and Arthur were conversing as I walked up, but all three stopped at the sight of me. I can only imagine the state of awe they were in that Potter could make me sweat so much in only two hours. They had all had the impression I was a secondary to Merlin or something... or perhaps they didn't know the power of their hero. Either way, they were staring at me, apparently shocked and waiting for me to speak. "Potter is better than I thought." I chanced a small smile before I noticed Remus staring at my right wrist, were I had been hit with a rather powerful blow. A weal, bleeding slightly, wound its way halfway around my wrist, showing the darkness of my blood. Which, might I add, was something I am keen to keep _inside_ of my body.

I coughed and licked my lips, taking their attention back to my face. It was quite annoying when people look at your body rather than at your face, so you can understand when I emitted a growl and turned on my heel to my rooms for a cleaning.

After Harry's shower, he was still confused. The images from the night before were clouding his thoughts, bringing out a rage in him he'd forgotten existed. Creating a powerful fuel for the manual duel he'd just taken part in. Damn her... whoever she was. Damn her secrets, and damn her power. Harry lolled his head back in exasperation. Couldn't she just tell them and get over with it?

In all truth, he didn't really know her. Nothing of her, not even her full name. She had popped into existence right under his nose, disrupting his total being by half. He was supposed to know the depths of Hell, but in her eyes he saw different. He wasn't the one who knew, she was. But all the pain of the past seventeen years could flood him at once, and he'd still be standing... That' s what they all thought. He was their hero. Outside of the few who still thought him a mad murderer, refusing to believe Pettigrew had truly caused so many deaths sixteen years ago, people still held him in respects, if not pity.

Harry shook the water out of his hair, which he'd grown out to lick his ears, and walked into his room to change. It took him a moment to realize he wasn't the only one in the room.

Hermione was sitting on his bed, looking fretful. To Harry's relief, she held no whiff of alcohol. "'Mione?" he said tentatively. Her head swivveled and studied him vaguely before sighing. Feeling fully concious of his bare chest and singular towel around his waste, Harry quickly pulled clothes out of his trunk.

"Harry...?"

"Yes...?"

"She's different. I don't know why... but she is. I can't figure her out. Not a singular bit... All of the books, Harry... Not one comes close to a thing about her." Hermione sounded thoroughly upset, making Harry abandon the feat of pulling on his shirt and sit next to her.

It wasn't exactly a comfort knowing the all-faithful Hermione couldn't figure the girl - woman, Harry thought suddenly, summing up that Rainne had to be considered a woman - couldn't figure the woman out. 'Mione was the faithful one. The one you could count on to always have the answers, or be able to solve the problem, find the faults and be able to figure how to fix them. Knowing she didn't know was a blow, if miniscule.

"I can't either. I wonder if Ron knows anything."

"Of course he doesn't, the boy's clueless." Hermione was staring at the floor, and Harry was getting more and more wary. She'd changed so much... what had happened when he'd been gone?

"You shouldn't talk about him like that." he said firmly, getting up to change. Hermione kept things decent and turned away so he could slip into some boxers and trousers, resuming putting on his shirt.

"I know I shouldn't. But it matters. If he doesn't stop being so distant, I'm taking things into my own matters. Mind you, Harry I won't be rash." Now that's the 'Mione he knew. Upfront and clever, always finding a way. Harry couldn't supress a grin.

He put her in a sibling-like headlock and gave her a rough noogie. "Yechh! Harry! STOP!" Both laughing, Harry pulled off and nudged her playfully in the arm, before dragging her up.

"Out you go, little fiend. I have to do some homework." Hermione had been about to protest as she was firmly placed out of the door frame, but at the mention of homework, she looked rather approving.

"Still using that planner I gave you so lon-" The door shut in her face.

**A/N:** That was basically a filler. If anyone... ANYONE... has read this, please review. I can't fix anything if I don't know what to fix.

_-Bloodwyne_.


End file.
